


Warlock Holmes

by BerityBaker



Category: Sabrina the Teenage Witch (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Magic!Sherlock, Magical Realism, Mortal!John, Teenlock, Warlocks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-20 00:58:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4767584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BerityBaker/pseuds/BerityBaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sixteen-year-old Sherlock Holmes is thrust into the world of magic when he finds out he's a warlock.</p>
<p>This fic is a part of <a href="http://falltvseasonsherlock.tumblr.com/fallshows">Fall TV Sherlock</a>, and is based on the 90s sitcom Sabrina the Teenage Witch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pilot

Waking up three feet above the sheets is surprisingly easy to overlook, or at least dismiss as the remnant of a forgotten dream. Sherlock Holmes discovered this on the sixth of January, 1993. When he hit the sheets a few seconds after waking, he started, but he soon rubbed his eyes and stood, cursing his unconscious mind for the scare.

Sherlock had always been a little strange, but that was nothing compared to the way the rest of his family behaved. He trudged down to the kitchen in brand new trousers and a button-down that he would wholeheartedly deny carefully choosing from the ranks of its fellows, his suppressed uneasiness in no way relieved by the stares of his parents.

“Happy birthday, Sherlock,” his mother greeted him, still looking on expectantly.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Thank you.”

“Feel different?” his father piped up.

“What, being sixteen? As opposed to yesterday, when I was fifteen?”

They both nodded.

He cocked his head, amused despite himself at their behavior, which was even stranger than usual. “Not at all,” he finally replied.

They sighed in what could only be… _frustration_.

“For God’s sake, just tell him,” Mycroft muttered from the entryway.

“Mycroft! What are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded.

“I couldn’t miss my little brother’s big day, now, could I?”

“It would be the best birthday present you could possibly give me.”

Mycroft grimaced, because that was the closest thing to smiling that Mycroft was capable of. “Sorry, brother dear. Maybe next year.”

“Why not right now?”

“Sherlock, dear, why don’t you take a seat?”

The tone of his mother’s voice instantly reignited Sherlock’s suspicion. “Why?”

“We have something to tell you.”

“I’m adopted?” Sherlock pleaded.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mrs. Holmes laughed. “You’re a warlock.”

Sherlock just stared. In fact, he stared for quite a long while.

Mycroft sighed. “You could’ve done with a bit more tact, Mother.”

“You can’t be serious,” Sherlock scoffed, recovering. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” Mycroft countered.

Sherlock shook his head slightly. “You’re all insane. Or I’m dreaming. I’m going to school.”

Without another word, he shoved his arms into his coat, grabbed his bookbag, and practically ran to the bus stop, forgetting his scarf in his rush.

+++

The strangest thing about starting at a new school was the lack of reputation to live up to or—as was more often the case when it came to other students—live down. No one knew his family, no one knew his past, and he was certainly grateful on both counts of ignorance, however short-lived they were likely to be.

Right after that on the list of general weirdness was the constant need to introduce oneself. Over and over, teachers would begin lessons with the phrase “new student” and force Sherlock to stand and very briefly tell everyone who he was and what he was doing there. So far, he’d managed to avoid saying anything noteworthy, beyond accidentally deducing his chemistry teacher’s pregnancy.

The day was almost over by the time he’d managed to find a toilet, and his bladder was screaming for relief, so he was close to crying when the little man on the door appeared before him.

He was rinsing his hands when a boy he recognized from chemistry entered. He stopped dead at the sight of him, then smiled and held out a hand. “Holmes, was it?”

Sherlock hesitated simply because the smile reminded him more of a lazy crocodile than anything else. Not frightening, but certainly unpleasant. “Yes,” he eventually said. “And you are…?”

“Wilkes. Sebastian.” As the handshake broke, he turned to the mirror and started preening in typical schoolboy fashion. Sherlock unsuccessfully resisted rolling his eyes. “Where d’you come from again? Never mind,” he continued, cutting across Sherlock’s response. “I’m sure you don’t want to talk about that.”

Sherlock decided to let Wilkes talk. Clearly he just liked the sound of his own voice.

“Although, I am curious,” he went on, confirming Sherlock’s suspicion, “how you knew Mrs. Johnson was pregnant. She hadn’t even told the rest of us yet.”

It was a few seconds before Sherlock realized Wilkes actually required an answer this time. “I just…saw,” Sherlock said simply.

“You saw?” Wilkes said skeptically.

“All the evidence was there. The extra candy wrappers in her wastebasket, the slight thightness of her blouse. There’s much more, but I’m not sure why we would get into that now, seeing as—”

“You’re sure you haven’t been stalking her?”

“I don’t even know her, Wilkes. Perhaps if you paid more attention to your lessons and less to your Whitney Houston shrine, you would’ve noticed yourself.” Sherlock wasn’t sure what had made him say it. It was as though something had pulled the words out of him, and he regretted it instantly. Because if one thing was clear about Sebastian Wilkes, it was his inexplicable power when it came to manufacturing reputations and spreading rumours.

Sebastian, however, stuttered, “H-how did you…?”

And that was when Sherlock realized he didn’t know.

He was so used to spitting out things he noticed that it hadn’t occurred to him that he shouldn’t know about the Whitney Houston merchandise Wilkes kept locked away in his bedroom closet, safe, but hidden from the world. It simply wasn’t _possible_ for him to know.

So he lied. “I heard you singing under your breath in class. Clearly you’re a fan.”

Wilkes seemed to buy it, but the look on his face told Sherlock the outburst would cost him a mark on his newly minted clean slate. “You are a freak, aren’t you?”

Sherlock didn’t break eye contact, but he didn’t say anything either.

“See you later, then. Freak.”

+++

“MYCROFT!” Sherlock roared as he entered the house. “GET DOWN HERE.”

Mycroft’s condescension was palpable before he’d even reached the bottom of the stairs. “Yes?”

“What’s going on?”

“Mother told you this morning, Sherlock.”

“Well, I believe her now.”

Mycroft’s eyebrow-raise conveyed no real surprise. “Do you?”

“Yes. And I want you to explain it to me.”

Mycroft nodded and led him into the sitting room. “What finally convinced you?”

“It’s the only explanation of all the facts.”

“Of course.”

Mycroft’s prim perch on the stiff armchair was met with Sherlock’s graceful flop onto the sofa. “Once you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable”—Sherlock took a deep breath—“must be true.”

“And it is. Our family come from a long-respected magical bloodline. Each and every one of us realized our power at sixteen years of age. We can then begin training to harness that power and use it.”

“Wait,” Sherlock cut in, smirking. “Is that how you lost all that weight five years ago?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but didn’t answer. “Would you like me to teach you a spell?”

“Be my guest.”

Mycroft stood suddenly and pointed at a vase on the mantelpiece. “ _You may be glass, but now I ask / to show your own, go back to bone._ ”

Sherlock stared as the vase morphed into a skull. “That sounded completely and utterly ridiculous.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft agreed, disgusted. “But, Aunt Zelda came up with it. She’s no great poet.”

“You hardly have to use her spell to know that. Her homemade greeting cards are horrendous.”

After a moment of silence, Mycroft nodded toward a similar vase on the table. “Go on, then.”

“What?”

“Try it.”

Sherlock cleared his throat and repeated the ridiculous incantation. The vase he pointed at promptly turned into a monkey.

“Well, it’s close, I’ll give you the satisfaction of that.”

“How is _this_ ‘close’?” Sherlock said in disbelief.

“You seem to have produced a lemur. Before it was transformed to better fit the décor of the mortal realm, this vase was originally a bone taken from the upper leg of a human skeleton, otherwise known as—”

“A femur.”

“Precisely.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Magic works in strange ways.”

“How on earth do you cope?” Sherlock teased.

“Oftentimes, I find myself asking the same question.”

+++

School would have been uneventful the next day. It would have been unbearably dull if it weren’t for Sherlock’s new ability.

He also would have been able to stay out of hot water.

He’d been lucky enough to make a new friend the day before—Molly, her name was—and as much as he preferred eating alone, the environment in the cafeteria was hazardous to loners, to say the least. So he sat with Molly Hooper, and they discussed the maths class they shared. Sherlock had just mentioned the surprise exam he foresaw in their future when he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see a boy with sandy blond hair and a large nose.

“Oh, hello, John,” Molly said brightly.

Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to speak. He felt his cheeks heating up, but didn’t want to acknowledge why.

“Hi, Molly. Mind if I sit here?” The boy pointed across the table to a vacant seat.

“Of course not.” As he sat, Molly continued, “John, this is Sherlock. He’s new.”

John offered a hand for Sherlock to shake. Sherlock blinked and took it.

“Welcome to Westpark. Finding your way around alright?”

Sherlock nodded, still unable to speak, fearing what he might say to offend John.

“Good. That’s…good.” John seemed at a loss for what to say himself.

Of course, none other than Sebastian Wilkes decided to turn up at that moment. He greeted John jovially. “John! How are you?”

“Doing fine.” The charming smile that remained on John’s face made Sherlock’s heart sink.

“You’ll be at the rugby party Friday, right?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Wilkes suddenly acted as though he were noticing Sherlock and Molly for the first time. “Oh, hello, Freak.”

“Hello, Sebastian.”

“You know, Holmes,” Wilkes said, “I think I’ve finished my juice. Would you like the rest of it?”

Before he knew it, Sherlock was covered, practically from head to toe, in the apple juice that had inexplicably fallen from Wilkes’s tray.

Wilkes chuckled and turned to leave.

Sherlock stood and glared at him. “Wilkes.”

He stopped, looked back around.

The air around Sherlock seemed to crackle. “Do you know what you’re dealing with?”

There was a startled gasp from somewhere to his right, and in a flash Wilkes had disappeared. In his place, on the floor, there lay a single red brick.

A weight seemed to lift from the room, and in no less than a moment, the murmur of confused and overexcited teenagers commenced.

“Sherlock, what…?”

“I…I don’t know. I’ll see you later, Molly,” he blurted, then ran from the room, scooping up the brick as he went.

+++

“So you _can_ turn him back?” Sherlock asked.

“Of course, dear. Nothing to worry about. He’ll be good as new.”

Mycroft snorted. “What happened, hmm? Have you got yourself a little…bully?”

Sherlock sneered. “Of course I do. Living with this lot, I attract bullies like flies to a picnic.”

“Now, Sherlock, that’s no way to speak of your family,” his father scolded, but Sherlock was hardly listening.

“Just turn him back. Brick to prick, go on.”

“Sherlock!”

“Sorry, Mum.”

“It’s lucky you aren’t able to seal your spells just yet,” Mr. Holmes remarked as his wife went about performing the necessary magic.

When he popped back into existence, Wilkes looked around in bewilderment. He saw Sherlock and froze. “What did you do to me?”

“Nothing, I didn’t mean—”

“I can’t believe it. You’re actually a whole family of freaks. I can’t wait to tell everyone the sort you come from.” He was out of the house quicker than Sherlock could react.

“Oh, no. Oh, no no no,” Sherlock said, dropping his face into his hands. “I can’t believe it.” He racked his brain for possible solutions, from emigration to full-fledged kidnapping, before he remembered.

Rounding on Mycroft, he demanded, “How do I turn back time?”

“Excuse me?”

“Time. I have to go back and make sure this doesn’t happen.”

“You can’t just—”

“Can’t I? I am a warlock, after all.”

“That requires quite a bit of strong magic, dear,” his mother cut in. “Only the Council can legally carry it out. You’ll need special permission.”

“Then I’ll speak with them. Where can I find them?”

Mycroft sighed. “There’s an entrance to the Other Realm in the upstairs cupboard.”

“Wonderful.”

Sherlock couldn’t reach the cupboard quick enough. When he returned, however, he was fuming.

“I can’t believe it. Do they _want_ mortals to know we exist?”

“Of course not,” Mrs. Holmes said.

“Then why won’t they help me?”

“Likely because they think the matters of children are petty. You’re only asking to avoid embarrassment with your peers,” Mycroft clarified.

“What does that matter?”

“They see it as your problem, not theirs. Don’t worry, I’ll speak with them.” He started up the stairs. “I’ve a few words for the director anyway, if you don’t mind.”

+++

Sherlock almost convinced himself not to go back to school the next day. He assumed Mycroft’s attempt to rewind the day had been unsuccessful, as he never returned to the house that night. He wasn’t sure how he dragged himself to the bus stop, or how he forced himself to get off near the school, but here he was, trying to remain invisible as he walked to his first lesson of the day.

Only, the lecture was exactly the same as the day before. Not a single word out of place.

Mycroft had done it.

By the time lunch rolled around, Sherlock was bouncing from place to place, oozing the confidence of a man who knew exactly what was going on around him. He sat next to Molly, and when he mentioned the surprise exam on the horizon, he turned before John could tap him on the shoulder, taking the boy by surprise and silently rejoicing when, in a brilliant turn of events, John’s cheeks went red instead of his own.

“Mind if I sit here?” John asked.

“Of course not,” Sherlock said. He held out a hand. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“John. Watson. Hi.”

“Before we find ourselves delving any further into pleasant lunchtime conversation, I have something to ask of you, John.”

“Yes?” John squeaked through a mouthful of potatoes.

“Would you like to go to the cinema with Molly and me Friday evening?”

“Oh. Sure.”

“Great. That’s settled, then. Now, what were we—”

“John!” Wilkes said over Sherlock’s shoulder once again. “How are you?”

Sherlock, upon a second examination, could pick apart John’s seemingly genuine smile. “Doing fine.”

“You’ll be at the rugby party Friday, right?”

John made a regretful face. “Oh, sorry, Wilkes. I’ve made plans with Sherlock and Molly.”

“Right.” Wilkes glared at Sherlock. “Well, perhaps next time.”

“Of course. I’ll talk to you later.”

A few moments later, after Wilkes had walked away and Molly had gone for more chips, John leaned in closer to Sherlock. “Thank you so much. I don’t think I could stand another party at that prick’s house.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, shocked. Then, just as suddenly as if they’d been struck by lightning, they were both laughing airily, unaware of the giggles from some nearby girls who had watched them from the moment John had sat down.


	2. Truth Flake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When his new friends accidentally have some ice cream adorned with truth flake, Sherlock learns some things he might not wish to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (And some things he might wish to know, actually.)

Sherlock was on his way to lunch when the rumour reached his ears. It wasn’t even very original, and it was even less plausible. But teenagers are, by nature, more than gullible, especially if the lie they’re expected to accept is wrapped around something mysterious. Unfortunately for Sherlock, the most mysterious thing to be found at Westpark at any given time was a new student.

So it was hardly a surprise when Molly approached him near the end of the day and timidly asked, “Is it true that you…um…slept with the entire women’s football team at your other school?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course not.” He muttered something about a “ridiculous idea” and shook his head.

“Well, Philip told me—”

“Philip’s an idiot. Honestly, Molly, I thought you were smarter than that.”

Molly went red, but she didn’t answer.

“Why would that idea even appeal to me?” He made a face, imagining all of those girls with their muddy kits and long hair and soft chests.

“Twenty fit girls, one right after the other? Nah, can’t see the appeal in that _at all_ ,” John said, appearing behind them, and Sherlock froze, his cheeks rapidly darkening to meet the shade of Molly’s.

“J-John! I didn’t know you were—”

“Couldn’t help but wonder if it was true. You didn’t seem like that type of bloke, so I doubted it.”

Sherlock stood up straighter at John’s tone. “And what type of bloke is that?”

“The type to fuck an entire football team,” John replied, giving him a curious look.

Sherlock almost laughed. _That all depends_ , he thought, but he kept his mouth shut.

“Where are you headed, anyway? I’ve got a rugby match tonight. I’d love for you guys to come.”

Sherlock shrugged as noncommittally as possible, but the truth was he had nothing else to do this evening, and the thought of John in a muddy kit…now _that_ was something he could get behind.

He looked at Molly and shrugged again. “I’ve got nothing on. I suppose we could stop by,” Molly answered.

Sherlock was dazzled by the genuine smile John gave them. “Excellent. See you around six?”

“Certainly.” Sherlock took a deep breath in a vain attempt to calm his pulse.

John waved and continued down the hall to the changing room, where his team would meet for a pre-game snack. Soon after, Sherlock and Molly parted ways, and Sherlock was left to wonder what this rugby match would have in store.

+++

“Yes, Mum, I’m going to John’s rugby match.”

Mrs. Holmes raised her eyebrows even higher once Sherlock had said it twice. “And he asked you, did he?”

“Me and Molly, yes.”

She grinned. “Have fun. And do wear that nice blue jumper your aunt gave you for Christmas. It looks great on you.”

Sherlock couldn’t disagree. The jumper had quickly turned into one of his favorite articles of clothing. In fact, he’d wondered ever since he found out about the magic in his family whether Aunt Dell had put some sort of enchantment on it to make it fit perfectly.

It took no time at all for him to get ready, but he still put way too much into his appearance, even combing his hair for a second time that day. He was just about to walk out the door, when the phone rang.

“Sherlock, it’s your friend, John!”

He ran into the kitchen and took the telephone from his father, confused. “John? Where are you calling from?”

“There’s a phone in the changing room.”

“Alright…”

“Listen, Sherlock, I’ve got something to tell you. I know who started that rumour. The one about you and the—you know.”

“Who?”

“Wilkes. Or better, Wilkes’s girlfriend. He’s been laughing about it for the past two hours. The rest of the team have just left, but I wanted to let you know you don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

“I…thank you,” Sherlock muttered.

“I’ll see you later, Sherlock.”

“Goodbye, John.”

As he hung up the phone, he slumped, his mind racing. If John was suggesting he wouldn’t want to come to the match because of Sebastian, he shouldn’t have invited him in the first place. No, this was something else. _“The rest of the team have just left,”_ he’d said. So he hadn’t been able to make the call in their presence…meaning he didn’t want them to know he was making it.

Sherlock sighed. Of course that herd of brainless oafs believed every word Wilkes said. The bastard was too charming for anyone’s good.

Of course, no one but the two friends he’d made would take his word over Sebastian’s. He had to find a way to discredit him, make him out to be the liar he truly was.

Then he remembered that magic existed.

“Mycroft!” he bellowed, hoping for once that Mycroft was listening for him.

He appeared from the pantry, primly closing it behind him. “Yes, brother dear?”

“How can I make someone tell the truth?”

Mycroft responded almost immediately. “Truth flake.”

“Truth flake?”

“Yes.” He strode to the cabinet over the stove and pulled out a jar of full-size candy bars. He held it out for Sherlock to examine. “Truth flake. The most innovative product to come from William Cadbury.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “What, the Cadburys were warlocks?”

“Of course. How else do you explain Dairy Milk?”

“How do I use it?” Sherlock demanded.

“Sparingly.”

“Yes, alright, but _how_?” He was already pulling a bar from the container.

“A few moments after it is ingested, the truth flake will compel a person to speak the truth. Many believe it is most effective when used in a 99, but that is widely debated among—”

“Right. Thanks, Mycroft. Gotta dash.” Sherlock was pulling on his coat before Mycroft could ask what he intended to use it for.

+++

He was a few minutes late to the match, but Sherlock easily found Molly seated by herself, shivering in a black dress that was much too short to be wearing in January, and much too formal to be wearing to a rugby match.

He sat down beside her without bothering with a greeting. Instead, he was calculating. He stared at the pitch, analysing each player of both teams, determining their chances of winning. If all went as expected, Westpark would likely overtake the visiting team in the last ten minutes of play, and Sherlock would be able to follow through with his plan.

Wilkes, he had discovered, carried a weakness for soft serve ice cream. There was a lovely little ice cream shop down the street, and if Sherlock’s judgement served him well, Wilkes wouldn’t be able to turn down a celebratory cone after the win. Sherlock would suggest to John that the team go for one, John would certainly insist that his friends accompany them, and it would be almost too easy to slip the flake to Wilkes in the chaos that rugby players on a victory high would create.

He smirked and sighed contentedly.

“Are you alright?” Molly asked. “You’ve not said a word since you got here.”

“Me? I am absolutely brilliant.”

“I know that, but how are you feeling?” Molly looked down. “Sorry. That wasn’t funny.”

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe a bit. Don’t apologise.”

Most of the match passed in silence. Occasionally, they would clap when John made an excellent play, or when Westpark would score, but overall, Sherlock found the game rather dull. If it weren’t for the way John ran, with his elbows tight to his sides and an uneven bounce in his step, Sherlock would have pegged it as a lost cause and left.

His predictions could not have been more spot-on, though, and as the match ended and the team celebrated, Sherlock strode over to John at the edge of the mob.

“Sherlock! I’m so glad to see you came!” He seemed pleasantly surprised, and if it weren’t for the fact that John was straight, not to mention that they had only known each other for a week, Sherlock would have thought John was greeting his significant other. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

“Of course I did. I said I would be here.”

“I’m glad you were,” John said. He didn’t seem to realize he’d already said it.

“I’ve got an idea,” Sherlock said, holding his breath. “How about we go out for ice cream?”

“Of course! Is Molly coming, or will it just be the two of us?”

“No, I meant _you_. With the team.” _Dammit._

“But you said ‘we.’”

“I know. Wrong pronoun.”

John’s smile dissolved the suspicious, confused look on his face in an instant. “That’s a great idea, Sherlock. But I wouldn’t want to go unless you and Molly came, too.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Sherlock protested.

“I insist. You put the idea in my head, now it’s going to stay there until it happens.”

Sherlock couldn’t help it this time. He laughed. “Alright. Let’s go, then.”

+++

The shop was just as chaotic as Sherlock had expected. Most of the team had gone home to wash and have dinner with their families, but those that came filled every available table. Molly sat in the corner, bewildered as to how she’d been dragged into this. Sherlock sat next to her, and John across from them, holding a plain vanilla cone with non-magical flake. He hadn’t yet started eating it, but was talking animatedly to the two of them, only responding to his team when they directly addressed him.

Sherlock folded his arms in triumph, his plan complete. Wilkes was a little ways down the row, taking a cone that was served to him with truth flake, which had been placed in a strategic position behind the counter when the server had turned to prepare his cone.

Sherlock was basking in the glory of it all when he heard Wilkes’s voice, much closer than it had been just a few moments before.

“Watson, did you order sugar strands?”

“What?” John looked at his ice cream, free from toppings other than its standard flake. “Oh. You know, I think I did.”

“I must have gotten yours by mistake,” he said, and before Sherlock could think of an argument against it, they had exchanged cones, and Wilkes was walking away with his plain vanilla.

“Anyway, like I was saying…” John muttered, sliding the flake from his new ice cream and taking a large bite out of it as Sherlock stared on in horror. He never continued what he had been saying, though, because all of a sudden all that mattered was the flake. “Wow,” he said, staring at the rest of it. “This is fantastic. You have to try it,” he said to Molly, who hadn’t even ordered a cone.

Sherlock’s hands flew out to bat the piece of chocolate out of John’s hand, but he stopped himself, unable to think of a proper excuse. “Honestly, John, I don’t see how it could be any different from what you usually have with ice cream,” he said very quickly.

Molly was already chewing by the time he finished. Sherlock put his face in his hands.

“It is, though,” John insisted. “It’s like when I met you I didn’t think you could be any different from any other new student.” He stopped, then looked at Sherlock, confused. “I don’t know why I just said that.”

“He is dreamy, isn’t he?” Molly put in matter-of-factly.

“Molly!”

“A bit of a dick, though,” John continued.

“Still can’t help but be attracted to him.”

“Of course.”

Sherlock liked to consider himself the master of confusing others with the truth. But Molly and John were saying things that shocked him to his core. John thought he was rude? Why were they even friends, then? And Molly was _attracted_ to him?

“I was kind of hoping we’d get closer this evening,” Molly said glumly. “But he was like a pile of bricks at the match. Barely said a word. He usually won’t shut up, no matter how much you want him to.”

“I’m still here,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Well, I don’t really care what kind of impression I make on you anymore. You’re obviously not interested.”

“That’s…!” he began indignantly, but decided she should at least know that truth. “That’s exactly right, actually.”

“John, do you know if Greg is single?”

“You know—”

“For god’s sakes, we’re leaving,” Sherlock said, abruptly standing and hauling his friends to their feet. The whole team stared at them as they left.

Molly’s house was just around the corner, so Sherlock made sure she was locked up safe and sound before turning to John.

“Where do you live?”

“Bond Street.”

“Excellent, the stop before mine.”

“Wait, you’re taking me home?”

“Of course.”

“But I want to see where you live.”

Sherlock stopped in the middle of the pavement. People huffed as they passed by. “What?”

“Your house, I want to see it.”

Sherlock began leading him down the street once more. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What? Yes, I do!”

“Why do you care? I’m a dick, remember.”

“Oh, come on now, Sherlock, I didn’t mean it like that. You’re a dick in the best way possible.”

Sherlock glared at him, but he knew better than to argue with the opinion of someone who’d just been given magic truth-chocolate. “Fine. But you’re not to say a word about this to anyone.”

“Why would I ever do that? I would never do that.”

“Of course not.”

“I wouldn’t!”

“I know. I believe you.”

John grinned. “See this trust we’ve established? This is the first step.”

“You have no idea how much I trust you in this moment, John Watson.”

+++

“Mycroft!” Sherlock hissed, sticking his head into the kitchen. John was sitting lazily on the sofa in the sitting room, commenting on all of Sherlock’s father’s questionable design choices.

Mycroft appeared from the cupboard as before. “What do I do if someone’s eaten truth flake by accident?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I knew this would happen.”

“Yes, but how do I fix it?”

“You don’t. The only thing you can do is wait for the effects to wear off.”

Sherlock was afraid of that. He didn’t even reply, just returned to his friend on the sofa.

_How am I supposed to know when the effects have worn off?_ The cushions shifted just slightly as he sat, carefully placing himself as far away from John as possible.

John scooted a bit closer. “Molly’s right, you know.” His voice was soft, now. Despite something as ridiculous as truth flake, John was being completely serious.

“What about?”

“It is hard not to be attracted to you.”

Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat. “Come again?”

“You’re just…pretty! You’re _so_ pretty. Beautiful, actually.”

Sherlock felt like his head might explode at any moment. “Am I?”

“Hot, too. I know it’s a bit weird to watch your mates as they walk away, but you’re just…so…”

He seemed to be struggling for words. “Hot?” Sherlock supplied.

“Yeah!” John breathed. He didn’t seem to believe he was saying it.

“You…didn’t seem like that type of bloke.”

John’s expression snapped from solemn and dazed directly to annoyed. “And what type of bloke is that?”

“The type that likes other blokes.”

“So I’m bisexual! What of it?”

Sherlock paused. “Bisexual?”

“Yes! I’m as bi as they come! No one knows it, but it’s true. Except for you, I guess.”

“I can’t believe it. You like women _and_ men.”

“Sherlock, you really are a dick.”

“No, that’s not—I didn’t mean—it’s just, you like men.”

John glared at him.

“So do I.”

John’s eyebrows furrowed. His eyes narrowed for a moment. Then he burst out laughing.

Soon Sherlock had joined him. They sank to the floor and ended up in a heap, breaths heavy and stomachs aching.

“So, Sherlock,” John managed once he’d calmed down a bit more. “We should go out sometime. You want to go out sometime?”

Sherlock looked at him, smiled, and, glad he hadn’t had any truth flake that night, replied, “No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, I have not been able to edit this. Let me know if there's something seriously wrong with it. Otherwise, see you next week!


	3. Study Tips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock agrees to study with John. What could possibly go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for my lack of activity. Life got in the way. But I am back with episode 3, and episode 4 is coming very soon--it is this week's episode, after all!

Exams weren’t normally a problem. They were simply written and easily sidestepped with a few fancy words and general knowledge of the material.

Sherlock hadn’t ever felt the urge to study until John mentioned doing it together.

The one class they shared was in Literature. An exam was scheduled for that Friday. As it turned out, neither had actually read _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ , and Sherlock couldn’t have cared less about getting bad marks on just a few assignments, but he hadn’t realized how much his exam grade would depend on his knowing the book until the teacher had mentioned its relevance.

The look of terror on John’s face as she said it told him all he needed to know about John’s preparedness. He turned to Sherlock and whispered, “Thursday?”

Sherlock nodded, fruitlessly trying to calm his pulse. Why did everything John said remind him of his utterly painful attempt to keep things slow and distant, at least until he learned to control himself? Why, in all of this realm and the next, did every question sound like an echo?

_“You want to go out sometime?”_

Sometimes he forgot why he refused. Then a nearby urn would explode or a particularly annoying peer would fall to the floor with shoelaces inexplicably tied together and Sherlock would congratulate himself on his restraint in mortal matters of romance.

It couldn’t hurt to do a bit of reading together, though. What could happen?

+++

It was at dinner, when Sherlock voiced this, that Mycroft began laughing harder than Sherlock had ever seen him laugh. He wasn’t too fond of the sound.

Sherlock glared.

“I’m sorry, brother dear, but since your birthday, you’ve not managed to go a day without knocking something from a shelf and sending it flying across the room.”

“You’re the one training me,” Sherlock pointed out, and that stopped him taunting.

“There’s nothing I can do about your clumsiness. The fact is, Sherlock, you’re a danger to everyone you meet. A ticking timebomb.”

“Oh, hush, now,” Mrs. Holmes intervened before Sherlock could start telepathically tossing potatoes at his brother. “He can’t stay locked up forever. He’s a teenager, Myc.”

“Certainly. And he should do the things that normal teenagers do. Make memories, _hang out_ with _friends_. Just don’t expect me to fix all of his mistakes.”

Sherlock scoffed, but didn’t have an argument. It was just the thing he was worried about, doing something to reveal himself and at the very least alienating John, if not actually harming him. He stood. “I’m going to bed,” he muttered.

“Aren’t you going to clean up?” his mother reprimanded.

He snapped his fingers without looking, and his plate was suddenly spotless.

“See, Myc? He’ll be fine.”

“Please, he’s been practicing that one all evening.”

+++

Come Thursday, Sherlock was left on edge by two simple facts.

One, his parents had told him that they would be attending a school function which largely involved talking with his teachers and his peers’ parents. Not only was he on his own in the case of an emergency, but there was very little chance common knowledge of his parents’ eccentricities would help him in his lessons.

Two, not a single thing had gone amiss with his powers in two days. That could only mean that something big was coming.

John approached him on the front steps of the school at three o’clock. “Ready to tackle some Oscar Wilde?”

“Well, he’s been dead for nearly a century, so I don’t see how difficult that could be.”

John laughed. Sherlock smiled in place of pumping his fist in the air.

“I asked my mum earlier, and she said we could just order pizza if you’d like.”

“Of course.”

“How far are you?” They began making their way to the nearest bus stop.

“Dorian has just broken it off with Sibyl.”

“Has he noticed the painting yet?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect.”

+++

After hours of reading aloud and laughing along with each other’s commentary, Sherlock raised an eyebrow and sighed.

“Everyone’s gay for Dorian.”

“Can you blame them?” John quipped.

“What do you mean?”

“Listen to the way he’s described!”

Sherlock snorted. “Poetic nonsense.”

John gave him a look and lifted his copy of the novel. “‘The curves of your lips rewrite history’?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, not wanting to give too much away. In reality, that particular line had struck a chord. It was John’s fault, of course—he’d been staring as Sherlock had read it. He’d even gone so far as to grin mischievously when Sherlock paused. “What’s that even supposed to mean?”

“What do you think it means?” John winked.

Sherlock shook his head. He giggled. “Maybe Gray’s just a big fat liar. He does have a painting in his attic that ages for him.”

“Yeah, but Lord Henry doesn’t know that.”

“Or does he?”

“Okay, Sherlock now we’re getting a little too deep.”

“Do you want to slow down?”

“Of course not, I was just wondering if you were ready for this level of literary analysis.”

“I suppose we should break for some pizza,” Sherlock sighed.

“Good idea.”

They ordered one pepperoni and flipped the television to some science fiction film. John stretched out on the sofa. “Make yourself at home.”

Sherlock did the bare minimum and folded his legs where he sat on the floor. He’d already taken his shoes off when he came in; he didn’t need any furniture-collapsing mishaps to make the evening more interesting.

“This is how you sit at your house?” John asked skeptically.

Sherlock turned a playful glare on him. “Don’t question my home life.”

John looked affronted. “Wouldn’t dream of it!”

Sherlock did lie his head back onto the cushions, which resulted in being nudged by John’s knee. He reached over and poked John’s foot, in a moment of reckless abandon. He was encouraged when nothing happened. It was when John rubbed his head like a dog that all hell broke loose.

“Why are you such a child?” Sherlock laughed. “You’re two years old!” Propelled by his newfound confidence in his own self-control, he leapt up and began to tickle John, whose surprising sensitivity around the armpits left him squirming and laughing higher and higher in pitch, until Sherlock noticed his friend shrinking.

And shrinking. And shrinking. To the size of a toddler.

He had long since stopped tickling, but John had continued to de-age. Finally, he was lying on the couch, giggling and clapping.

“Oh my god,” Sherlock said, clapping a hand over his mouth as he realized what he’d done. _“Oh my god.”_

“Sh’lock! ’Gain!” John squealed, reaching up at him.

Sherlock panicked. He scooped up the toddler—who was luckily still wrapped up in the T-shirt John had changed into after school—and ran from the house, hardly remembering to shut the door behind him. He charged past the pizza delivery man on the pavement, not even registering the pizza he’d been so eager for being knocked out of the guy’s hands and onto the bonnet of a parked car.

+++

The looks he got as he entered the school ranged from startled to confused. He sped through the halls, searching desperately for any sign of his mother or father. The whole way, John chirped and clapped. At one point, he grabbed ahold of Sherlock’s hair and pulled, hard.

This was not the first date he’d been hoping for.

He stopped dead when the thought crossed his mind, and he reminded himself: “ _You are not on a date with John Watson. You are just studying. Look at where flirting got you. You turned him into a_ baby _, for Christ’s sake.”_

He was starting to hyperventilate when he found his father talking to some other parents outside a toilet. “Dad,” he said breathlessly.

“Sherlock? What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be studying with—?” His father was cut off by a shriek from John.

“Daddy!”

Sherlock stared in horror at the man his father had been talking to, the man John was now reaching for.

“Hang on a moment, Sherrinford,” Mr. Holmes said, and Sherlock was about to open his mouth furiously, fed up with his family’s antics, when he realized his father was addressing the toddler in his arms. “Daddy’s talking. Sherlock, would you mind taking him to see the lobby? Your mother and I will be there in a moment.”

Sherlock did as he was told, dazed by his father’s quick thinking. It wasn’t two minutes, and his father came up the corridor that ended in the front lobby of the school. Mrs. Holmes was right on his heels.

“What happened?” his father asked urgently.

“I was—I was just—”

“Spit it out, Sherlock.”

“I was—flirting.”

They both froze, giant grins cracking their solemn features. “You were flirting?” his mother said, glowing with pride.

“Yes, I was flirting. And I was tickling John and this happened.”

His parents looked at each other, then back at Sherlock. They were enjoying this far too much.

“How do I fix it?” Sherlock begged.

“Do you remember what you said?”

“Of course. I called him a child.”

“Well, that’s your problem,” Sherlock’s mother said.

“The solution is quite simple, really,” his father put in.

“Then what is it?”

“Just tell him the opposite and he’ll return to normal.”

“Well, what’s the opposite?” Sherlock pleaded.

“You’ve have to figure that out on your own,” was the only reply he got before his parents walked away, leaving him glaring after them.

+++

“Alright, let’s see…You’re a big boy now? No, that doensn’t work…”

John was sitting in the center of the sofa, watching Sherlock pace back and forth with a concerned look on his face. “Sh’lock?”

“I’m sorry, John. I’ll get us out of this mess, I promise.”

“S’okay ’Lock.”

“No it’s not.”

“S’okay!” John insisted.

“It definitely is not okay, John! You’re sixteen years old, you’re not supposed to age backwards. Of course this would happen. Of _course_. I finally get to spend some time alone with you, even though it’s _not a date_ , because I’m a complete arse and I thought that if I just waited until I could control my powers—”

“Powers? What are you on about?”

Sherlock’s head snapped around.

“Also, why am I half-naked?”

“Oh. Um. Er. Well—”

“Sherlock, what’s going on?”

Sherlock sighed. “I’ll just leave.”

“The hell you are.” John situated himself between Sherlock and the exit. “You’re not going home until I get at least some explanation.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Make one up, then.”

Sherlock had never seen John angry, so he wasn’t sure if he was actually upset with him. He actually seemed more confused than anything. “Fine. Alright. I do have an explanation, but it’s pretty unbelievable.”

John glared expectantly.

“I’m a warlock.”

“A what?”

“My family all have magical powers. They don’t come in until your sixteenth birthday, so I’ve only had mine for about a month, and I’m still trying to control them.”

John sat at the end of the sofa and pondered Sherlock’s confession for far longer than it had taken him to spill the beans. When he finally spoke, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief just because he would no longer have to wait for his reaction.

“You’re a warlock.”

“Yes.”

“And you can’t control your powers.”

“They’re new to me.”

“ _That’s_ why you won’t go on a date with me?”

Sherlock was taken aback. “Yes.”

They stared at each other.

“What a stupid reason not to go out with someone.”

“I was worried about what would happen to you!” Sherlock said indignantly.

“I know. And I ended up…what happened, again?”

“You aged backwards at an accelerated rate.”

“You ended up ‘aging me backwards’ anyway.”

“I know.”

John shook his head. He patted the cushion next to him. “Come here.”

“What?”

“I said, come here,” he demanded.

When Sherlock sat, he found himself pulled against John’s side as John leaned against the armrest.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock deadpanned.

“Shh. Just sit with me for a moment.”

It was uncomfortable at first, after spending so much of the past few weeks forcing a distance between them, but after a few minutes, Sherlock started to melt into the warm touch at his side. His spine relaxed, his head lolled onto John’s shoulder, and his hand even fell to rest on John’s knee.

“Isn’t this nice?” John mumbled into Sherlock’s hair.

“Hmm.” Sherlock nodded.

“Do you feel out of control?”

“Hmm. No.”

“Good.” Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice.

John leaned back further, relaxed into the sofa, dragging Sherlock down with him.

“John?” Sherlock muttered after a moment.

“Yeah?” John replied sleepily.

“At least our first date was eventful.”

“Bet you the second’s even better.”

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the late hour of posting, but in the future, new "episodes" should "air" at 4PM (EST) on Wednesdays.


End file.
